Sans everything
by wencharella
Summary: What if Lance died young? Pietro reflects on losing Lance, and how there is never enough time to live.


"Sans everything"

Time.

It's always there in the background, ticking away. You take it for granted – there is morning and evening, dawn and dusk, afternoon and night. There are days and hours, minutes and seconds. With time, we age.

I read this speech by Shakespeare about the seven ages of man. You start as a tiny, puking baby and grow up to be a schoolboy. From a schoolboy you progress to a lover (that's your typical whiny teenager.) After that, you grow up to be a soldier and fight bloody, unnecessary battles. When all the fight is knocked out of you, you become a middle-aged man, all fat and worldly-wise. And then the inevitable old age kicks in and you become an old man; you start to shrink and turn grey. The seventh stage is the one that ends it all - your senses erode until you're once again helpless as a baby. Then you die.

Smart speech Shakespeare, but not everybody gets seven stages to live. Some people get to the sixth stage of old age and die comfortably. Others die a little before their time in the fifth stage because they've been careless in their youth. Millions of soldiers die in battle and three whole stages are snatched from before their eyes. Children die. Some babies die, even in the womb, missing their whole seven stages of life.

When Lance died, he was somewhere between stage three and four. Like a soldier, he died in battle. Nineteen years old.

If you want to blunt, time is morbid. Time moves on until we run out of it. Nobody knows how long their clock will tick for. And, much as you want to, you can't force the hands of time to turn back. If somebody's gone, they're gone. It only takes a second for them to go, and you'll be left blinking in the rain feeling like time has stopped forever.

...

Nobody had any idea what was going to happen. All we knew was that we had an important mission, and if it all went to plan, the rewards would be astronomical.

We were wearing the shiny new battle-gear that I'd been up all night sewing. The quality wasn't any better than our old suits, but we looked a hundred times more professional in streamline black and silver. We looked like a team rather than the motley band of misfits we'd grown up to be. There were five of us then; Freddy, Todd, Wanda, me and Lance.

It was a stiflingly warm, moonless night. We were waiting for the mission to begin, sitting on crates at the docks, or "sittin' on the dock of the bay" as Todd kept singing.

Wanda and Lance were smoking, though I did remind them that infecting their lungs with cancer-rods was not the best warm-up for a physical mission. It was a habit of Lance's that any time he got nervous or excited or emotional in any way, he would light up and take a long slow drag. His brown eyes would crinkle around the edges and he'd scan an imaginary horizon, not saying a word until his cigarette was finished.

I was buzzing that night; running from here to there, babbling strategies at super-sonic speed. Admittedly, I was acting like a hungry squirrel on crack, but I was taking the mission one-hundred percent seriously. It wasn't an X-Men save-the-world free-for-all; it was an authentic Dangerous Interception Mission. Wannabe badasses that we were, we thought it would be all action and no danger like the movies. In cinema, when somebody dies we have the comfort of knowing that the director called "Cut!" and the actor got up afterwards, dusted himself off and went back to Real life in the Real world. Watching real death, you expect the same thing to happen, that he might raise his smashed-in head from the floor and complain about how long it's going to take to wash the fake blood off. Crazy, huh?

Anyway, I was halfway through my detailed battle-plan complete with colour coded diagrams when Lance cleared his throat loudly in a polite suggestion that I stop talking before he rolled up my blueprints and made me more intimate with them.

"That's some cough you have there, Lancey," I smirked, regarding his none-too-subtle throat-clearing. "Maybe you should smoke a little less."

"Maybe you should chill out about this mission," replied Lance, eyes narrowing with suspicion. "You said it would a hundred percent safe, why are you freaking out?"

"I'm not freaking out."

"Sure you're not."

The gloomy lights of a passing ship appeared on the horizon, growing brighter and brighter as it came nearer. This was the first thing I remembered about the night after I came round; it was just so surreal how the light made Lance glow, made his pupils dilate. Maybe my memories were marred by what happened, but he didn't look... earthly.

Lance leaned in close, checking that the others were out of earshot. "Pietro... We'll be fine, won't we? This mission – it isn't out of our league, right?"

His arm brushed the small of my back and my breath hitched. Me and Lance, we had this strange relationship of being not-quite-lovers but more-than-friends. To be sickly sentimental, I wanted him more than he would ever know. You see, I never told him how strongly I felt; how I still feel when I close my eyes and piece together the tiny details like how the back of his hair stuck up first thing in the morning or the way he pronounced awesome 'ahh-some.'

"God, adrenaline's sexy on you," I whispered, running my hands over his sculpted chest.

"No gay stuff in front of the others," Lance muttered, batting my hands away. "I'm serious. Look at me and tell me there's no risk here."

So I looked right into those deep, deep eyes and told him there was no risk, because I really believed it.

"Guess I'll have to believe you," said Lance, though he still looked anxious. As if he knew I'd picked up on his worry, he puffed out his chest like a typical Action Hero and stuck out his chin. "Have no fear, the Invincible Avalanche is here!"

Invincible. That's stuck in my head for all eternity; invincible.

Fuelled with lust, excitement and energy, I pulled him in for a crushingly hot kiss. But before we had the chance, Wanda came running towards us shouting "They're here! They're here!"

We could instantly tell something was wrong from the panic in her voice. Wanda never showed fear if she could help it, but now she was practically whimpering with fright. She pointed wordlessly to the other side of the docks, where a bunch of men were unloading an expensive-looking car.

Only these men were not the defenceless immigrants we'd been told about. They were a gang of big-looking guys with even bigger-looking guns.

She pulled hard on my sleeve. "We have to get out of here!"

"But we need the weapon -"

"Pietro, can't you see?" Wanda hissed; yanking me out of sight behind a crate sprayed with Russian graffiti. "They've stitched us up. There is no weapon."

I shook my head, refusing to believe it. "Mystique wouldn't -"

"Pietro, we have to go," she said firmly, as if she was speaking to a spoilt two-year-old at the zoo.

I shook my head again. Said there must have been some mistake, and anyway, what were a few guns to a team of mutants?

Todd leapt towards Wanda, his arms and legs flailing in some kind of physical freak-out.

She pushed him away from her. "You idiot, they'll see us!"

There was an awful split-second as Lance turned round and uttered those small, terrifying words.

"Too late," he said without a hint of emotion. "They already have."

I must have blocked out what happened next – the images are all fuzzy and infrequent like an unturned TV. I remember little things like Wanda slipping in a puddle of oil, Todd hanging onto some mobster's back, Freddy taking the door off a truck and using it as a shield... But I don't remember what I was doing in the fight or where Lance was at the time.

Somehow, inexplicably, we beat the men with guns. I remember turning to Wanda and laughing like crazed pixies as we watched them drive off defeated. Imagine how we felt just then – up to that point, we'd been bona fide losers but we'd just beaten a real live mob. Aced it, if I do say so myself.

"We did it, yo!" cried Todd, who crushed us both in a sticky bloody hug. His brand shiny-new uniform was ripped at the arms, revealing splinters and grazes but nothing worse.

"Where's Freddy?" asked Todd, trying to sound casual. His yellow eyes betrayed him – they were wide and unfocussed, darting from one spot to the next in the hope that Fred would be nearby.

For some reason, I had this weird feeling in my stomach about Lance. I thought that if nobody mentioned that he wasn't here, everything would be alright.

"Where's -" Wanda began, but I shushed her before she could say his name.

So we waited in silence, and Wanda was smoking and smoking and smoking and I was tapping and tapping and tapping my foot.

Todd eventually turned up with Freddy, who'd been stuck in a crate but was otherwise fine. We laughed for an unnaturally long time about the Blob getting trapped in a box and speculated about where Lance could be hiding. Maybe his plentiful hair was tangled in a fish-net, or he'd made a break for freedom on the back of a killer whale. Our ideas got more and more ridiculous as we waited for one hour, then two.

At some point between two hours and three hours, Todd stood up and said that he was going to look for Lance. It was getting lighter now, and it would be easier to see him. He took one area of the docks to search with Freddy, and Wanda took another. Nobody asked me – I think it was because I still laughing, still making stupid stuff up about where Lance could be.

And time really did stop then, as I waited for them to find him safe and sound. I waited for twenty minutes; nothing. For some silly reason, I began to think that it would only be okay if I was the one to find Lance. I started to panic that the others would find him first, and began to smash things up, zipping round the place at super-speed in a frenzied search. Several times I tried to call out his name, but my tongue was stuck in my mouth like a big lump of cotton.

Eventually, I came to an area inside a fort of crates. A rosy wash of dawn sunlight filled the space – this and the silence made it somehow holy. Then I saw it, sticking out from underneath a rusty car door. A boot, almost comically like that scene in the Wizard of Oz. The boot connected up to a leg, but the door blocked the torso. I knew who it was before I saw the mangled brown hair on the other side of the door, my heart lurched and skipped and spiked with anticipation.

I honestly didn't know whether I could open my mouth to speak without puking.

Luckily, he spoke first. "I'm not dead," he said in a rattly old-man voice.

"I knew it!" I yelled triumphantly, completely ignoring the pools of blood and his shallow breath in my excitement. I thought it all had to be fine now I'd found him alive.

"Let's get this door off you and we're good to go!" I said. I didn't sound like myself. In fact, I didn't sound like anybody I knew.

"NO!" Lance screamed as I took one corner of the door in my hands. I couldn't understand why my hands were shaking when things were fine. "Pete – the door – it's"

Oh god. I see this bit every night. The disgusting, grotesque moment when I looked – really looked – and saw that half of the door was stuck inside Lance. He was... impaled. The door sank into a jagged mess of blood and bone and bits of flesh. That didn't scare me half as much as his face did. His pupils were fully dilated, just black holes in his face. His lip curled back in agony, baring teeth and gum like a chimpanzee. Something in his neck jumped every time he tried to breathe.

I still forced myself to believe he'd live. Lance would live, and it would make one hell of a good survival story. I dialled 911 on the phone we'd been given for the mission, feeling Lance's eyes burning into me as he watched. There was no way I could look back at him; I was afraid to register those dead, sparkless eyes.

"The ambulance will be here soon," I said, kneeling by his head.

"Not much time," whispered Lance. His eyes were still on me, I knew.

"Not long now," I kept saying. "Not long now."

He heaved a ragged breath. "Don't go..."

At these words, the painful knot in my stomach returned. The feeling was mutual.

"Don't you go either, Alvers." I attempted a smile, but a sob came out instead.

"Look at me..."

So I looked at him, looked away and forced myself to hold eye contact. His eyes crinkled around the corners - the big sap was trying to smile.

"This'll make some good jokes for you..." he said.

Believe it or not, I was quite the joker once.

"Well, that's not we meant when we said get in the car," I began. "Man, Herbie turned nasty on you. Talk about driving you to your own death, huh? Gimme a brake! Jeez, you auto know better than that." Then I put on my best Cockney accent and said, "You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!"

And even though they were dreadful, stinking jokes, Lance laughed. It's funny how polite he was with a collapsed lung, ruptured spleen, masses of internal bleeding and who knows what else. The laughter must have hurt him, because he sucked in a breath and his face turned grey. He panted like a dog, staring and staring at me as if I was supposed to do something.

"The ambulance will be here soon," I said.

"Nnnno..." He sounded like he was underwater. I can't forget the blood bubbling up at the corner of his mouth like tiny rubies, frothing as he spoke. "Don't think I'm gonna make it, Pete..."

"No, no, no," I insisted, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. "You're Invincible, remember? You said you were invincible. You'll be okay, I promise you. You're invincible, believe it!"

"Pete..."

His free hand groped feebly for me. I held that hand, though it made me feel sick with its colourless zombie limpness.

And then my heart began to pound with the realisation that Lance wasn't going to make it. I couldn't bear to touch him; I dropped his hand and stifled a retch.

"I should get the others," I mumbled, looking as far away from him as I could in the confined disgusting space.

"Nnno..." he wheezed again. "If you go... I know you won't come back."

Black blood was now trickling down his chin.

"I... I need you to be brave... Stay..."

I wiped my eyes and took his shaking hand back.

"Even with a car door sticking out of your gut, you still manage to be the brave one."

He laughed weakly. "What a dumb way to die... You... You won't leave, will you?"

God, it was pathetic. Lance had always been so heroic, so fearless, and there he was begging me not to leave him. I sobbed again, though there was no longer any point in hiding it.

"I won't run away," I promised, pushing his sweaty limp hair out of his eyes.

Time was running out. His mouth formed silent, bloody words; the grip on my hand slackening still.

"I'm ssssssssss... Sorry... For being ash-amed of us... You should know that I..."

He couldn't say it, so he mouthed it. 'Love you.'

And then I didn't see the blood. I kissed him with all the feelings that I couldn't put into words – still can't put into words.

"Your face... All wet..."

"I'm crying," I said simply. Not that crying is anything spectacular, but I'd never cried in front of anybody before.

His face screwed up in a wave of agony. "Don't."

"I have to," I replied. I lay down next to him in his blood, making us face to face. "I don't want you to go. You never, ever deserved this – I should be the one bleeding to death right now. Look at you... You're supposed to be invincible."

What I was trying to say was "sorry," but I've always had problems with apologising. I just wanted to shake him and scream at him and ask him what the hell I was supposed to do without him, and how dare he be so selfish to just fucking die like that.

But I didn't do either of those things. We just lay there, sunbathing in the early dawn.

"Not like the movies, is it?" I said. "Not so glamourous."

Like I said, movies are fake. You'd never see the twigs of bone sticking out from the ribcage like a cow carcass, or hear the blood gurgling up in the lungs. And there's just no time to tell him that you'll never forget him, that it was always him, that you'll goddamn avenge it if it's the last thing you do.

"Not long now," I said softly. He was barely breathing. "Are you scared?"

"Ngh."

"Don't be scared. I'm here. If Satan tries to take you, I'll kick his ass."

"P -"

"Alright, no jokes," I said. His hand felt like a mannequin's, all plasticky. It was no longer shaking. "It's going to happen soon, isn't it?"

Lance's eyes shuttered closed. "Yeh - s-soon..."

God knows how I managed it, but I kept it together for the last part. I kissed his clammy, colourless forehead and rubbed some warmth into his hand.

"Just like going to sleep," I soothed. This came to be ironic, because I haven't slept properly since.

"No more pain," I said, though my pain was only just beginning.

"Let go," I whispered, but I never can.

Eventually, I became aware that his breathing had stopped. When people talk about somebody slipping away, it really is true. I didn't notice it happen. I thumbed the vein in his wrist – no pulse. Nothing. He was gone.

The next thing I knew, the ambulance was there and the dawn sunlight was gone and it was raining. They tried to put him in a bodybag, but nobody could prise me away from him. Everybody cried but not me, I just clung to him and thought that if I held on long enough, I would go too.

Then I blacked out, and when I finally woke up, I was in a different place and he had been buried.

...

So there it is. Forgive me if I'm not the boy I used to be; I've lost my spark. I used to be Quicksilver, now I'm sluggish, dragging out my daily routine until it's time to feign sleep again. They say time is a great healer, but lest we forget, it's time that screwed this all up in the first place.

I've tried to visit Lance's grave several times. I joked with Todd about how funny it was that Lance, a guy who could manipulate earth, should be stuck under six feet of it. Maybe one day there'll be a massive earthquake and lo and behold, a zombie Lance emerges from the ground. I don't know. It's hard to stay serious sometimes.

The thing is, I can't equate the bones lying in the cold earth to the Lance I knew. He wouldn't have his stupid mullet haircut we used to tease him about. Worms would've chewed up that warm, tanned skin by now. His heart, brain, face – gone. Nothing of Lance is left there.

What I do have is time to think and I remember. Like a jigsaw, I piece all the little things together. I smell Marlboro smoke, see his eyes crinkle; hear him say "Hey, that's ahh-some!" about some lame song on the radio.

Time ticks away, but memories go on. And for a second he's there, glowing in the first rays of dawn, something that I can almost touch.


End file.
